We might fall
by Splashez
Summary: Even world's strongest telepath can't deny what he saw and let happen in his youth. X-Men first class AU, possible Erik and Charles slash in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

We might fall.

A/N: This is pretty much alternate universe and partly based on the book "Boy in the striped pyjama's". It's first part (for now) takes place during the Holocaust with Erik already transferred to Auswitsch. I would like to make clear I'm aware of the fact Erik was called Max during his youth, but to keep this understandable for people who did not read the comics I will just use the name Erik Lensherr.

Disclaimer: Characters and ideas belong to Marvel, plotting belongs to me.

Chapter One: The refugee.

Charles Francis Xavier happened to peek through the west window of the mansion that afternoon.  
>He and his mother had moved to this - considerably large - house after his father had been placed as a lawyer to serve Johann Schmidt, a doctor and man of honor - they said.<br>Charles had been told the camp was a temporary place for refugees of Poland and Germany - but off course he knew better.  
>He heard the silent pleadings to a God he did not know, he did not understand. But he knew the people who the pleadings belonged to had faith in Him, and so Charles tended to accept the fact there might be something up there he didn t see yet. At least it gave them hope.<p>

Please, set us free. I beg you, my children They have been awfull, save my little Marie Mein Schatz.

At night, Charles laid listening to the voices, dreams and nightmares. Sometimes he would drift of into a world of blurry visions and wake up screaming. The maid, Anne, would sit by his side.  
>Everything is alright, Charlie. She would say. Everything is alright. Maybe it was the familiarity of the words, or perhaps just Charles early knowledge of a foreign language like German, that one afternoon he caught a soft women s voice in his mind.<p>

Alles ist gut, Erik. Alles ist gut.

He moved his gaze from the book he had been reading to determine if the voice came from the camp at the western side of the house, when for one terrible moment his mind went black.  
>A terrible pain shot through his head, which made him collapse to the ground. He caught the feeling of panic in a mind that resembled his own, but was way more damaged.<p>

MAMA!

The silent cry rung in his ears as Charles crawled up and ran to a window in the west wing, climbing up to look outside. The camp laid there in its horrifying silence, like always.  
>But he knew what he heard, and something in his mind had decided he would find the source of the unknown scream for help, the reason for the black moment of his telepathy.<br>Charles had always known he was different, he needed no one to guide him. In fact, he had never needed anyone to guide him.  
>Charles, dinner! Anne s soothing voice came from downstairs and he descended, stepping into the kitchen hiding his shock pretty well, while the maid brushed his hair behind his ear.<br>Now, it will be a quiet dinner, your parents have been invited to Herr Schmidt s dinner, so it s just the two of us. She served his dinner and sat beside him, guarding as always. Sometimes he caught her thoughts, which were worried and randomly blurred through her unconsciousness.  
>Who is in the western camp? He found himself, between two spoons of mashed potato, asking the question he had asked himself for days.<br>Anne glared at him, her mind speaking more than her body language.

Don t ask, don t tell.

People. She answered in the end. People, like you and me. It was soothing at least to know that Anne didn t see them as rats, even though Charles wouldn t realize what her words meant until much later.  
>Later that evening, after Anne left him in his bed with a warm glass of milk and a book full of fairy tales, he drew up his knees against his chest. In his mind he tried to form the face of the boy who screamed - he was sure it had been a boy. A mind resembling his own that much, it almost felt natural to search for the presence of the others mind once again.<p>

I m sorry Mama, I m so sorry.. Ich liebe dich.. Ich liebe dich, Mama.

Charles could feel the other s agony, the other s tears. He silently slipped out of his bed, wrapping himself in one of his old sweaters before sneaking down the stairs.  
>Leaving the mansion without Anne s noticing was easy. A house so big, with rooms so countless - he could sense her presence in the dining room, rippled words came through her mind.<p>

Heatcliff said Katie wondered

He left her in peace, reading Wuthering Heights for the third time and got out through the backdoor of the kitchen.  
>The night was chilling cold and he drew the large cardigan more close around him to shield his skin. As a rich kid he wasn t used to much. Not this much, in any case. There was ice crawling up the windows, the sound of chattering teeth in his mind.<p>

Have to get out, have to.

Charles pressed his fingertips against his temple when sensing the pleasantly familiar presence once again. He located the young voice near to the mansion, he felt fingers digging in the dirt.  
>His steps became faster, almost running. Silence had always been his strong point and he was merely a shadow as he crossed the field until reaching the fence he saw so often from the windows of the west wing.<p>

Have to get out.. have-

Suddenly, a wave of shock went through both their minds. Charles had to steady himself onto the branches of a still young tree.  
>Go away! A soft hissing voice emerged from behind the fence, trying desperately to sound demanding. In Charles head, who could sense almost every emotion, it sounded full of fear.<br>Who are you? I said go away! Charles was too late to sense the string of haywire that snapped and wrapped loosely around his throat, the points brushing over his skin.  
>Metal. The metal moved out of nowhere.<br>I am not afraid to kill. I am not afraid of you. Charles spoke, holding his breath to keep the haywire from damaging his skin.  
>A boy emerged from the shadows. He was thin, his hair filthy, at some places fallen out. His cheeks were hollow and his fingers black from digging the dirt.<br>They looked at eachother. Charles tried to concentrate on the unknown mind, rather than the haywire threatening to kill him.  
>He found an amount of pain too full of agony to touch, so he let go of the others thoughts and decided to soothe him instead.<p>

Erik. He projected into his others mind. I am like you.

He didn t know how he realized, but assumed he had always known he wasn t the only one. He sensed a mind that was the same.  
>And it appeared he had been right. <p>


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This is pretty much alternate universe and partly based on the book "Boy in the striped pyjama's". It's first part (for now) takes place during the Holocaust with Erik already transferred to Auswitsch. I would like to make clear I'm aware of the fact Erik was called Max during his youth, but to keep this understandable for people who did not read the comics I will just use the name Erik Lensherr.

Disclaimer: Characters and ideas belong to Marvel, plotting belongs to me.

Chapter Two: Like minds.

The haywire that clung around his neck a moment ago swept away into the nightly sky, leaving Charles in a pleasant shocked confusion.  
>No one is like me. The boy named Erik exclaimed before he fell onto his knees again, digging into the dirt.<br>Why are you doing that? Charles had always been a curious being, and truth to be said he couldn t stand it when another person tended to ignore him or his questions without leaving him with an answer to think about. Food for thoughts, so to say.  
>Seeing you are probably going to betray me, I better get out fast. Betray you?<p>

I won t betray you, promise.

Charles smirked as Erik s head shot up for the second time. He loved it when his little projecting thoughts-trick worked. The boy looked at him with a gaze that hung between admiration and fear, backing off into the shadows of one of the barracks close.  
>What are you?<p>

I told you, I m like you.

He seemed to have the boys attention now, and as he stepped closer to the fence also Erik approached, weaving his fingers through the haywire, bending it so the sharp edges wouldn t harm him.  
>You re Herr Xavier s son, aren t you? You re one of them. Charles might have been smart at that age already, but he was as na ve as a baby and he never thought that the world really was divided into two camps - surely not one treated as rats, and the other like kings.<br>One of who? Nazi s. Schmidt s people. Erik stuffed his half gloved hands into the pockets of his coat, shivering. While brushing against his mind, Charles caught the feeling of hunger and agony.  
>Will you stop doing that? His mind slammed unconsciously shut to lock Charles out, who withdrew. He might have been curious but he wasn t an intruder.<br>Are you hungry? Erik looked away for a moment, the metal now motionless again. Charles wondered if he could use his power anytime he wanted, or if it was something that happened without his decision. He was intrigued.  
>No. Glaring at the thin boy s hollow cheeks, and the feeling of perishing that still radiated from his body, Charles could hardly believe that.<br>He held out his hand, showing some remained cookies from his warm milk that he stuffed into his pocket before leaving.  
>You don t have to lie. There was a moment of silence before Erik seemed to give in, his hand extending and grabbing one of the cookies, bringing it to his lips that way he made Charles think of a mouse cherishing his food.<br>You can have them all. It took a moment, but then Erik collected all of the cookies, hiding them carefully in his pockets before turning his gaze at Charles.

Thank you.

In the following days, Charles kept smuggling food out of the mansion, always when his father and mother were busy - which was quite some time of the day. Anne might have noticed a few missing breads, but she just teased him about being hungry at night.  
>They had made a secret place under the willow where they first met. Charles hid food, games and a blanket for the nights, which seemed to torture Erik s already damaged immune system. Meeting every night, they soon became friends - or something like it. In any case, Charles always called Erik his friend, and Erik, in return, called Charles a spoiled brat. They both knew how he meant it.<p>

One night when Erik arrived, Charles wasn t there yet. Terrified the boy wouldn t show up, terrified his friend had been caught, he started pacing up and down the fence, looking timidly over his shoulder on the watch for guards.  
>Charles? He hissed when sure no one was around. Charles! A sound at the left of him startled him and he jumped, shooting back into the shadows of the barracks, eyes glancing from the darkness. His power and fear made the metal rustle.<br>But in the end it was only Charles appearing out of his hiding place, his clothing ripped and rustled from the - seemingly - climbing over the tall fences around the camp.  
>What are you doing inside? Erik looked like his friend lost sanity.<br>Charles merely held up a wooden plate with black and white squares, together with a bag containing chess pieces.  
>I brought you a game, but it wouldn t be fun to play it through the fence. I want you to move your own pieces. Erik was stunned by the kindness, how the other thought it no big deal at all.<br>So, Charles continued. do you know how to play chess? The thin boy shoved his feet over the ground, shrugging his shoulders at his loss of words, before shaking his head.  
>Not really. Charles chose for settling down on the little grass there was near the fence - all that remained of being eaten by desperate refugees - and patted on the ground next to him.<br>Come on, I ll teach you - it s fun. After a short moment of hesitation Erik chose to join in, slumping down besides Charles, who showed him how to arrange the pieces on the board while patiently explaining the goal of the game.  
>Halfway his demonstration of how the queen would move, Erik s mind nudged softly against his own.<p>

You re really like me, aren t you?

Charles smiled for a moment, hitting the black knight with his white queen. He watched the chess piece fall before sending his answer.

Yes, I am. 


	3. Chapter 3

We might fall.

A/N: This is pretty much alternate universe and partly based on the book "Boy in the striped pyjama's". It's first part (for now) takes place during the Holocaust with Erik already transferred to Auswitsch. I would like to make clear I'm aware of the fact Erik was called Max during his youth, but to keep this understandable for people who did not read the comics I will just use the name Erik Lensherr.

Warning: Mild violence.

Disclaimer: Characters and ideas belong to Marvel, plotting belongs to me.

Chapter Three: The best way to learn.

It s been a week since their first chess lesson and Erik still doesn t understand what on earth he s supposed to do.  
>Off course, any other time, it would have been a game perfect for his mind. The competition, the killing of someone else s pieces. But as much as he tries, in the current circumstances he just doesn t understand who can even think of playing a game.<br>The third time Charles beats him that day they quit, and the young boy sighs, maybe a little worried.  
>Friend, what s wrong. Spoiled brat, absolutely nothing. But Erik s gaze is absentminded and Charles scoots over to touch his arm. The feather light brushing over his skin makes the thin boy jump and wince in pain before he can straighten his face again.<p>

You know you can tell me.  
>You know I don t want to. Stay out of my head.<p>

Charles retreats and gathers the chess pieces. White by white, black with black. As clear and clean as always - he never liked messy games or circumstances.  
>Which made it even stranger that he visited Erik every day. There was hardly a more messy circumstance on this earth than their friendship.<br>Charles can t help to glance at the wounds on Erik s arms when he lifts his sleeve to scratch the skin in an unguarded moment.  
>Erik I had a fight, alright? Charles knows better than just believing and cocks his head.<br>A fight with who. The boy shrugs his shoulders, looking away. Don t know, there was food. I was hungry, suppose everyone is. Charles doesn t see that as a reason to fight over food when you can share. Then again, he probably doesn t realize they would fight about one potato in the camp.

That night Erik isn t standing. He s laying. Curled up at the feet of the willow. Instead of climbing over the fence, Charles sticks his hands through it to touch his friend, scratching open the skin of his wrists and arms in the process, the haywire still sharp as always.  
>Erik Erik! His voice is an urgent whisper, the other one trembles.<br>You.. you should

Move, Charles. Run away.

The suddenly pleading cry pierces in his mind and makes Charles tremble. He tightens his grip on Erik s shoulder, when he retreats the blood leaving his fingertips red.  
>What did they do to you. Ch-Charles.<p>

Move, move now!  
>I m not going to move anywhere!<p>

Charles might have been young, but he isn t stupid. He might be na ve, but he isn t dumb. Someone hurt Erik, and Erik dragged himself to the fence because Charles would be there.  
>Be silent, I m coming over. His hands pull back, but Erik is faster. He throws himself up, grabbing Charles wrists. The haywire penetrates his skin, he doesn t do as much as wince.<br>Don t.. come.. here.

Not anymore, not now.

Who did this to you? Erik? Charles voice grows fearful. Afraid of grown up people and what they do to the ones pure of heart. He had known that all along, Erik was pure of heart.  
>I m going to read your mind. He threatens when the other boy remains silent both in thoughts and voice.<br>Na-na ve.

Na ve, silly, spoiled brat you are Move!

But why? Charles learns why when the flashlights shine upon them. Strangely enough his first concern goes out to Erik, who is now visibly hurt. The blood spread over his face and soaking his striped shirt.  
>Ah, ist das nicht der kleiner Charles Xavier? Charles head shoots up, the voice makes him fear. The mind of the speaker makes him fear, that cold utter evil.<br>Nicht.. Herr Doktor. Bitte nicht. It takes a moment before Charles realizes it s Erik who s pleading. The boy crawled up, holding the man and soldiers back by clenching his bloody hands into the man s costume.  
>Charles! The other voice makes the little Xavier stiffen even more. His hands still struck through the haywire, he cranes his neck before ducking in, his father dragging him up.<br>I told you, Xavier. Your little boy is playing with fire. Schmidt I assure you he didn t know Still, you know there s punishment on helping Jew s, not restricted by age, I m afraid Charles doesn t miss the evil glance that flickers in Schmidt s eyes. He doesn t miss the soldiers exchanging looks behind his back. He doesn t miss Erik - he doesn t miss Erik s thoughts.

They can t! I won t let them - not like me. Charles, go.. Charles run.

Herr doctor, bitte please. Schmidt looks down onto Erik, who still clenches his fists in his coat. With a single movement he kicks the boy aside, who now cripples and curls upon the floor.  
>Would you take the punishment in his place than, Jew? Erik cries.<br>No one hears it but Charles. Charles who wants to object, who wants to scream, but his father holds him so tight he isn t able to do anything like that.  
>Erik sobs softly, crawling up and till Charles shock he holds out his hands to Schmidt, mouthing something to silent to be heard.<br>Speak louder. The boy earns another smack.  
>Y-yes. Schmidt smirks for a moment before turning to Charles father.<br>Seems your son is lucky today. I would teach him the difference between humans and rats, Xavier. His father nods. Charles feels like a coward when Schmidt drags Erik up from the ground, pushing him against two soldiers shouting commands in German, so fast the English boy doesn t understand.  
>Charles kicks and screams on the way back, but all he earns is a smack of his father, which sends him down to the ground. He curls up when he hears Schmidt s voice, hushing.<br>Uh-uh hard lessons are the best way to learn. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four: Suppressing memories.

A/N: This is pretty much alternate universe and partly based on the book "Boy in the striped pyjama's". It's first part (for now) takes place during the Holocaust with Erik already transferred to Auswitsch. I would like to make clear I'm aware of the fact Erik was called Max during his youth, but to keep this understandable for people who did not read the comics I will just use the name Erik Lensherr.

Thank you for the reviews, both on and Deviantart! If someone knows a trick to get more readers, please share!

Disclaimer: Characters and ideas belong to Marvel, plotting belongs to me.

London, 15 years later.

Charles had always hidden the bruises on his wrists and back.  
>He wasn t ashamed of them, he simply detested pity. He wasn t sure what Anne would do if she d find out, and it could ruin so many things for the both of them.<br>The blow he dealt with so long ago, while leaving Erik, had been the first but not the last. When the war blew over, stuffed into history books and documentaries - not forgotten, just less real - his father always kept the somewhat aggressive look in his eyes. Anger, driven by fear.  
>He hated his father, but then again you can t really detest those who raise you. Or maybe Charles simply couldn t detest at all.<br>The young man, now 24, just graduated at Oxford as a professor in Genetic Mutations, is sitting in a cab, driving to the graveyard. He buried his mother - now he will say goodbye to his father. Raven sits next to him, her mouth shut but her mind so loud he didn t even have to read it - the words simply fill his mind.

Don t get it did so many bad things.

Charles moves his hand to Raven s arm, her skin human, but as always he feels her real form beneath his fingers.  
>Now come, Raven, no bad words about the dead. She sneers softly, tapping her fingers on her knee as the cab stops. Charles gets out, walks over and opens the door for his sister.<br>He found her in the kitchen not so long after Erik disappeared. Off course it was vain hope the boy would ever return from the fence but somehow Charles never believed he got killed - his spirit was too much alive for that.  
>And yet he never tracked him down, or spoke to him. Charles doesn t exactly know why, maybe because it s all so much more easy when he pretend it was a dream.<br>Charles, why are we here? Raven whispers, hooking her arm into that of the young man next to her. People glare at them, not sure what to think about the just appeared couple.  
>Because he was my father. The answer is as simple as it s untrue. Charles found out long ago - around the age of 18, when he studied his own DNA for a research project - that this man wasn t his father.<br>But a fake father, even when he s a bad one, is better than no father at all, he guesses.  
>You know that s not true, you re torturing yourself again. Keep your voice down, please.<p>

Charles, come on, let s go. We don t belong here. I have to be here.

As they pass a lonely man in the corner, next to the coffee table, both of them don t think about it any longer - it s probably a business relative.  
>A few feet further Raven seems to reach her highpoint of irritation as she makes Charles stop dead in his tracks by holding his wrists. He winces, she smiles - her eyes somewhere between pity and triumph.<br>I knew it. She mouths as she pulls up his sleeves. It s a summer s day - she already wondered why on earth he d wear a cardigan instead one of his usual short sleeved blouses. He looks a tad ashamed, after all.

The man they just passed looks up, playing with the sleeve of his turtleneck. He is careful with keeping them down around others. In his mind, it still feels like he s wearing the yellow star who tells the whole world he s a rat. A filthy animal, a Jew.  
>For one day, only today, he left the coin in the pocket of his leather coat, which now hangs in the wardrobe at his hotel room, the door locked with metal bars and the lock twisted. At least it s safe.<br>But Erik s hands are never without a movement, he needs to hold something, touch something. And because of that, his fingers play with another object.  
>It s much like the coin, from his youth.<br>Only this bears better memories.  
>He used only to look at it, if he wanted to realize that he wasn t all bad, that there had been certain points of light in his childhood.<br>He also wondered if his partner ever played the game again, missing one of the vital pieces. Knowing him, he would have found a solution - a radical one, of a very simple one.  
>Both ways - Charles would always play chess.<p>

After the funeral, when the body has been lowered and Raven finally agreed on leaving him alone with his injuries and grief, Charles pulls up his sleeves, taking something out of his pocket.  
>The bracelet, not more than a small silver chain, lays in his hand like a tiny little snake, ready to move, to bite, to hurt.<br>But it does nothing.  
>It belonged to his mother - after the car-accident she had pressed it into his hand, muttering he should never show it to his father.<br>And he never did.  
>He plays with it, without thinking - or rather focusing of the thoughts of grief surrounding him. In some minds, there s an interesting lack of sadness - he feels joy jolting from the souls of some of his father s business companions.<br>One s death is another s bread, so to say.  
>While focusing on Raven s location, Charles feels the bracelet slipping from between his fingers, dangling down into the still open grave full of roses.<br>It falls down towards the closed coffin of his father, down to the soil. No way he ll ever reach it.  
>Maybe she belongs with him after all. He mouths gently.<br>No, she never did. The new voice startles Charles and he feels something dropping in his still outstretched hand. Throwing a quick look, he sees the bracelet.  
>What Do you really not remember? Why is there sadness in that voice? As a thin, long body retreats from the shadows, Charles first indeed doesn t. He gazes at the speaking stranger, his fingers clenched tightly around the piece of metal in his hands.<br>I.. I m sorry. The man smiles, but his grey blue eyes do not join. They look dead, like they didn t smile for a very long time.  
>Let me help you. Very slowly the tall man stretches his arm, opening his hand. The skin of his lower arm is tortured by a row of black numbers, inked into his very soul. In his hand lies a chess piece. The white king.<p>

Checkmate. Erik. 


End file.
